Tom Evans nodded—did not press her for further information—simply nodded.
“Alrighty then,” he said. He gestured toward Hadley. “You go on and tell ol’ Hadley Jacobson to run along home now. We’ll let ya give us a try for a while and see if you can tolerate two ol’ bachelors.”
Reaching out, she took hold of his hand, shaking it with relief, gratitude, and sheer delight. “Oh! Thank you, Mr. Evans! I promise you won’t regret accepting me into your employ!”
He smiled at her and shook his head, chuckling. “Well, I’m sure I won’t if’n I can get used to the way you talk.”
Lark giggled as she ran back to the wagon. She nearly threw her arms around Hadley Jacobson’s neck to thank him but caught herself a moment before performing such an impetuous and improper display. Instead, she took his hand and shook it as sincerely as she had Tom Evans’s a moment before.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Jacobson! Thank you!” she gushed. “He’s offered me a chance. He’s offered to see if I can do the job, and I can’t thank you enough for your help!”
The young cowboy handed her the old carpetbag that hid her only possessions, touched the brim of his hat, and said, “Yer welcome, miss.” He climbed up onto the wagon seat once more, gathering the lines to the team. “I hope I’ll be seein’ ya in town now and then,” he said. “But not too soon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jacobson,” Lark sighed.
Hadley nodded and slapped the lines at the backs of the team. The team lurched forward.
Lark didn’t wait to watch him drive too far away. She wanted to make certain Tom Evans knew she was committed to working hard. Therefore, she turned and hurried back to the house.
“Here I am!” she announced excitedly, running up the steps to the porch.
Tom Evans chuckled. “Here ya are indeed.” He studied her for a moment and then stepped aside and gestured that she should enter the house.
“Well, let’s get you settled in, Miss…um…Miss…”
Lark thought it was sweet—the way he’d already forgotten her name.
“Lawrence,” she told him. “Lark Lawrence, Mr. Evans. But please call me Lark.”
Tom nodded. “Lark it is then,” he said as she stepped into the house.
She felt like jumping up and down with glee and utter elation. She’d prove her worth—yes, she would—and then she’d have a place to winter. Still, she concealed her delirium. She didn’t want Tom Evans to think she was some sort of lunatic woman. No. She needed to remain calm—to move and act with the grace and composure of a refined woman. These Evans men were more mature, in their late twenties perhaps. They would respond more positively to the nature of a more mature woman. After all, she had the sense that their recently departed housekeeper had been quite maternal—an older woman. Thus, they were most likely used to less giddiness—a quieter sort of existence.
As she stepped into the front of the house, she looked about. It was a rather large house—larger than it appeared from the outside. There was a parlor to her right, a kitchen to her left, and a hallway and stairs before her. It was instantly obvious that the house was inhabited by men—solely men. The furniture was thick with dust—strewn with blankets, clothing, and other clutter, even in the parlor. The kitchen looked as if a small twister had blown through. Still, the furnishings were of quality, and the general decor very tasteful. She credited this fact to the late Mrs. Simpson.
“Not much to look at,” Tom began, “but we find it cozy enough.”
“It’s wonderful!” Lark exclaimed sincerely. “It’s sturdy and temperate and ever so masculine,” she commented.
“Temperate?” Tom chuckled.
Lark smiled and nodded. “Yes. It’s very cool and comfortable inside,” she explained. “And I’ve no doubt it’s very warm in the winter.” Warmth! The thought of being warm in winter purely breathed respite in her.
Lark bit her lip and stifled a giggle as he reached over, attempting to conceal a pair of red flannels strewn across a nearby chair. He was a delightful man! Yet the thought of how kind and lighthearted Tom Evans seemed led Lark’s thoughts to his brother. At the sudden reminder that Slater Evans also lived in the house, Lark’s joy was somewhat lessened.
“There’s a room off the kitchen here that was Matilda’s,” Tom said, leading Lark to a door just at the foot of the stairs. “You’ll like it, I think. It’s more, ya know, all lacy and white…with a pink pitcher and basin for washin’. It’s more…more…”
“Feminine?”
“Yeah! That’s it! Couldn’t quite think of the word,” he mumbled, seeming thoughtful. “Anyway, it’s right over here.”
He opened the door and stepped aside for Lark to enter the room. Lark smiled, surprised and delighted by his awkward yet somehow well-groomed manners.
She gasped a little as she looked about the room. It was charming! Its small dimensions were perfectly cozy. A comfortable-looking bed covered with a bright white and pink quilt stood invitingly in the center of the wall to the right. Lace curtains hung at the window at the back, and above the washstand sitting next to the bed hung a lovely painting of an old southern mansion.
“What a beautiful scene,” Lark said, going to stand before the painting.
“Matilda was from Richmond. I think she always hankered for the life she remembered before the war,” Tom explained.
“It’s a lovely painting,” Lark breathed as she studied the tall pillars of the antebellum house—the lilac-colored wisteria blossoms engulfing them. Sighing with rare and pure contentment, Lark glanced around the room again. “This is the most wonderful room I have ever seen,” she whispered. And it was true.
“Well, I don’t know about that…but I hope it’ll do.” Tom nodded to the back wall. “There’s a wardrobe just back here for your hangin’-up things. And, of course, that old trunk at the foot of the bed is yours as well. It’s empty.”
Lark looked around awkwardly—sat her worn carpetbag on top of the old trunk. She certainly wouldn’t need much space for the few things she had with her.
“Thank you, Mr. Evans,” she said.
“Oh, help us all,” resonated a growl from behind them.
Lark turned to see Tom Evans’s brother standing in the doorway—scowling at her as if she were infected with some ghastly disease.
To my husband, Kevin…
“Perfectly Imperfect” to Perfection!
A Perfect Dream Come True!
Forever My Perfect Hero!
About the Author
Marcia Lynn McClure’s intoxicating succession of novels, novellas, and e-books—including The Visions of Ransom Lake, A Crimson Frost, Shackles of Honor, and The Whispered Kiss—has established her as one of the most favored and engaging authors of true romance. Her unprecedented forte in weaving captivating stories of western, medieval, regency, and contemporary amour void of brusque intimacy has earned her the title “The Queen of Kissing.”
Marcia, who was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, has spent her life intrigued with people, history, love, and romance. A wife, mother, grandmother, family historian, poet, and author, Marcia Lynn McClure spins her tales of splendor for the sake of offering respite through the beauty, mirth, and delight of a worthwhile and wonderful story.
Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine
A Better Reason to Fall in Love
Born for Thorton’s Sake
The Chimney Sweep Charm
A Crimson Frost
Daydreams
Desert Fire
Divine Deception
Dusty Britches
The Fragrance of her Name
The Haunting of Autumn Lake
The Heavenly Surrender
The Highwayman of Tanglewood
Kiss in the Dark
&
nbsp; Kissing Cousins
The Light of the Lovers’ Moon
Love Me
The McCall Trilogy
An Old-Fashioned Romance
The Pirate Ruse
The Prairie Prince
The Rogue Knight
Romantic Vignettes—The Anthology of Premiere Novellas
Saphyre Snow
Shackles of Honor
Sudden Storms
Sweet Cherry Ray
Take a Walk With Me
The Tide of the Mermaid Tears
The Time of Aspen Falls
To Echo the Past
The Touch of Sage
The Trove of the Passion Room
Untethered
The Visions of Ransom Lake
Weathered Too Young
The Whispered Kiss
The Windswept Flame